


Lay Flowers Upon My Grave

by Phantastic_Whovian



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Death, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Suicide, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Jehan, Other, be warned kiddos, its not a light story, its uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-20 01:13:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12421956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantastic_Whovian/pseuds/Phantastic_Whovian
Summary: Montparnasse is visiting the cemetery, when a suspiciously barefoot redhead catches his eye. Who are they, and why are they in the cemetery? Are those...flower seeds?





	Lay Flowers Upon My Grave

“Who are you?” The voice is soft, but there is an edge behind it. Montparnasse whirls around, immediately jumping into a defensive position.“There’s no need for that.” They’re small, with hair that reaches down to their waist, and-is that a flower crown they’re wearing? They tilt their head in confusion on seeing him. Montparnasse’s mouth goes slack, and the person smiles.

“Who are you?” Montparnasse’s voice comes out hoarser than he would’ve liked.

“I think I already asked you that.” Their smile is kind, but it does nothing to lower his defenses.“I’m Jehan.”

Jehan. The name sounds oddly familiar. He straightens up, ready to flee at any moment.

“What are you doing in a cemetery?” He asks.

“I’m planting flowers. It would be terrible, I think, to have the only reminder that you existed simply be a barren mound of earth.”

“That’s…a bit of a morbid thought.” Montparnasse says.

“Perhaps.” They admit, still smiling. “I prefer to think of it as just a kind gesture.”

“Oh.” For the first time he realizes their feet are bare. “Aren’t you cold?” He asks, shocked.

“It’s okay. I don’t ever feel the cold.” They reply, shrugging. “Goodbye, Montparnasse.” He watches them go, and only realizes hours later that he never told them his name.

 

Jehan is there when he comes back the next day.

“I was beginning to wonder if I would ever see you again.” They admit. “Not many people talk to me.”

“You know, that may have something to do with you constantly walking around cemetery’s barefoot.” Montparnasse says, only partially in jest.

“Perhaps.” Jehan agrees, tilting their head in that strange way they do. “Do you want to plant flowers with me?” Montparnasse finds himself captivated by their eyes, dark and pleading.

“Okay.” He agrees. Grinning, they take his hand, and their skin is cold as ice.

 

The two sprinkle seeds on the dirt over the graves, not talking. Jehan seems to have an unlimited supply. He’s tempted to ask why, but he has a feeling that there are probably many things about them he doesn’t want to know.

“You never told me why you were in the cemetery.” Jehan says eventually. 

“For the same reason anyone else is, I suppose.” _To say goodbye._

“Who did you lose?” They ask, softly.

“An acquaintance.” He says, shortly.

“I see.” They fall back into silence, until eventually Montparnasse stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks away.

Jehan doesn’t follow.

 

Somehow he finds himself back the next day, where Jehan is waiting in the same spot. Flowers are blooming all over the cemetery as they walk, which should be impossible. He could have sworn those were the flowers they planted just yesterday. But they couldn’t be.

Jehan presses a handful of seeds into his hand, their slim fingers freezing as ever, and he begins sprinkling them silently.

“It was my brother.” Montparnasse eventually speaks, breaking the fragile silence that lay between them. “My brother. His name was Feuilly.”

“I can’t imagine the depths of that loss.”

“Yeah, well. It was years ago. When we were just kids.”

“Then that’s even worse-having your childhood shaped around such a traumatic event.”

“I guess that’s true.” Montparnasse continues sprinkling the seeds, his hand shaking. Jehan doesn’t comment on it.

 

He doesn’t know why he comes back the next day, he really doesn’t. Why does the cemetery draw him? What is the irresistible pull that keeps him coming back?

It’s Jehan, of course. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, as ridiculous as it sounds, it’s Jehan. He wants-he needs-to know more about them, to understand their attachment to the cemetery.

He needs to understand them. He hates mystery, hates suspense, hates things he can’t understand. Jehan is all of these things-and yet, he doesn’t hate them. He doesn’t think he’s capable.

“Hello, Montparnasse.” They greet him, smiling.

“Hey. Any seeds?”

“Of course.” They pour some into his cupped hands, and he shivers when their skin brushes his. They turn to walk ahead, their bare feet gliding over the ground so quickly he struggles keep up. As they walk past the flowered gravestones, one stands out to him. Theretwo are no flowers planted there, and the bare dirt is a stark contrast to the colorful wildflowers Jehan has planted everywhere. It seems unlikely that they would miss it, or forget.

“Why doesn’t that one have any flowers?” He asks, curiosity pulling him closer to Jehan. He catches a glimpse of their face, and their expression is a strange mix of melancholy and a strange apathy.

“It’s not important.” They say after a moment.

“Did you…lose someone?” Montparnasse asks cautiously, aware he’s treading on thin ice.

“In a way.” Their tone is humorous now, and he finds himself bewildered.

 

Later that night, when the world has fallen asleep, he sneaks out of his house, armed only with his phone. It’s a short walk to the cemetery, and he spends the time regretting every decision that’s led him here. It’s probably nothing, there’s probably reasonable explanations for everything. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right. He isn’t sure what, but he knows that Jehan is more than they seem.

His steps hasten when he sees the bare grave, his breath hitching in his throat. Fumbling for his phone, he turns the flashlight on with shaky hands to read the words engraved on the stone.

_Jean “Jehan” Prouvaire_

Gasping, he backs up a few steps, disbelieving.

“I knew you’d find out.” Jehan’s voice is inconceivably sad. He spins around to meet their eyes, raising his arms in a defensive position. “Oh, no. Please, please don’t be afraid. Not of me.”

“You’re dead.” His voice sounds hollow, even to himself. Jehan frowns.

“Well, yes, I suppose so. It all seems like so long ago now.”

“How…how did you…”

“I…I don’t remember all that well.” They say faintly.”I was…I was on stage. And then-and then I heard it. The gunshots.” Montparnasse winces. “Grantaire was holding my hand, I remember that.” Montparnasse’s stomach drops.

“Grantaire?”

“Yes. Taire.” They say, sounding more sure of themselves now.

“I…I have to go.” Montparnasse says. He turns briskly, to walk away.

“Wait!” Jehan calls. “Are you coming back?”  
They don’t receive an answer, just the wind whistling through the trees. They sink to their knees, flowers sprouting where their hands touch the earth.

 

“Grantaire. _Grantaire._ ” Montparnasse bangs on the door insistently. It opens suddenly, revealing Grantaire with deep bags under his eyes.

“Jesus _christ_ , Parnasse.”

“Jehan. Jehan Prouvaire.” Monparnasse says in answer. Grantaire pales immediately, and steps aside to let him in. “They’re dead. They died holding your hand.” Grantaire shakes his head, sitting down hard on his couch.

“Christ.” He mutters. “Who told you that?”

“I can’t tell you, but…you need to come with me.”

 

Grantaire stares at the barren grave, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“ When you were shot, everything was chaos.” He begins, trying to make sense of his words. “Fifteen people died, and you were the first. You were…you were standing on stage. It was…it was a protest about gender equality, and you asked Enj if you could make a speech. And then you got shot.” Montparnasse can see it now-a bright sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. Jehan smiling, waving at the crowd.A trained sniper rifle taking its shot. He sees Jehan crumple in his minds eye as vividly as if he’d been there, the scarlet blood blooming on their chest, wetting their lips when they coughed. “They’re all dead, Jehan.” Grantaire says eventually. “All of them. All our friends, they died that day. They got shot, or they died in the fire. Except…well, except Montparnasse.” Montparnasse’s head jerks up, confused. It’s a joke, right? “He ran onstage when he saw you get shot. He held your hand while you died.” No. _No, this couldn’t be right._ “He, uh…well, he ate a bullet a few weeks ago. On the anniversary of your death.” Grantaire is actually tearing up now, and Montparnasse would find it kind of touching if he wasn’t so confused. “He loved you. I hope…I hope you knew that. He loved you. We all did.” Grantaire clears his throat. “I’ve…I’ve been meaning to visit Enj. I dreamed that Montparnasse came to my house, that he told me to come here. So, thanks, Parnasse, wherever you are.” Grantaire turns to walk further into the cemetery, where Montparnasse can make out a grave covered with vivid red flowers. Enj, no doubt.

“You knew.” He says, turning to Jehan.

“Of course I knew.” Their voice is soft, and heartbreakingly gentle. “I love you-I could never forget.” They reach out to touch his hand, and with a jolt, memories come rushing back to him. He falls into Jehan’s arms, sobbing.

“Jehan. _Jehan, Jehan, Jehan._ ”

“Montparnasse” They cry. “Oh my god, Montparnasse, I waited for you.”

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry it took me so long.” They pull back, realization dawning on their face.

“You shouldn’t be here. Tell me-tell me you didn’t. Tell me it was an accident. Please.” Montparnasse’s face betrays him. With a wail, Jehan turns away.

“Jehan-love-“ Montparnasse starts. Jehan whirls around, furious.

“You think I _wanted this?_ You think I _wanted you to come here?_ I missed you-I longed for you-but I _waited._ You should’ve stayed, should’ve found happiness.”

“I didn’t come here to find you.” Montparnasse’s voice takes on a cold tone. “I wasn’t expecting to be here. I wasn’t expecting anything to happen, after-“ His voice breaks. “Two years, Jehan. Two years of seeing your face on every person with red hair, of avoiding anything that even _slightly_ reminded me of you. I moved cities, changed names, burned that flat to the ground. And you were there anyways, in the back of my mind. You were always there. You died in my arms, Jehan. I could never wash the blood off.” Jehan, searching his face, sees nothing but truth there.

“I still think you should have waited.”

“No matter, I’m here now.” He folds them into his arms again, kissing their temple lightly. Then, breaking apart, he takes their hand lightly. It’s warm inside his as he leads them away, into the sunset.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah uh. I tried to warn you.  
> come yell at me in the comments please i need validation  
> also i might write something about how they all died if anyone's interested in that, idk


End file.
